


scars

by the-black-birb (moriturism)



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, F/M, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Inked!Kuroo, Tatto Artist!Reader, Tattoos, if you squint theres daishou x kuroo but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moriturism/pseuds/the-black-birb
Summary: Kuroo Tetsurou is still hooked on a highschool romance gone wrong.
Relationships: Kuroo Tetsurou/Reader
Comments: 11
Kudos: 74





	scars

**Author's Note:**

> TW for implied abuse and foul language

Kuroo had always been proud of his tattoos, dancing over his body like a mosaic. In the year following high school, he’d gathered so many that at times he wondered if he had more ink than skin.

It was almost addicting, the feel of the needle buzzing over his skin leaving his senses numb. At parties they kept him grounded, always a topic of conversation. He’d trained himself to recall the stories of each – just enough that it wasn’t too personal – without even thinking about it.

He was always delighted to talk about his tattoos – in part because it meant talking about _you._ At first, it was just normal praise for the artist. “She’s amazing!” he’d tell his friends. “I definitely recommend her; she’s done all of mine.” Of course, he’d gush and fawn over the person who helped him garner so much attention.

But recently, his commentary was becoming a bit different. “She kicked my ass at mario kart,” he told Kenma, who just groaned. Beating Kuroo at mario kart didn’t mean much.

“Her rice cakes taste amazing,” he beamed when him and Bokuto got their weekly brunch. “She taught me how to make them but I can’t get them quite right…”

Bokuto nodded solemnly, taking in all of Kuroo’s excitement. “So, you’re whipped?” was his conclusion after the fourth brunch in a row Kuroo brought up his escapades with you.

“Huh?” Kuroo looked up from his omelet to Bokuto’s owlish eyes. “Nah, man,” he laughed. “She’s just a cool person, you know? Not many people can be artists _and_ bakers _and_ -“

“Gamers,” Bokuto finished, smirking at Kuroo. “You’ve said.”

Before Kuroo could protest once again, Bokuto (to his friend’s relief) changed the subject to ease Kuroo’s discomfort. But the words still lingered in his mind.

You were a lot of things to Kuroo. A business acquaintance at first (and the only tattoo artist near him that he could afford fresh out of high school) but recently a friend and confidant as well. It couldn’t be helped; if you were to hand draw each and everyone of his tattoos and hear his stories full and uncensored you were bound to become close with him.

But he knew there was more to it than that. He’d been drawn to you from the start.

“So why do you want to get a tattoo?” you’d asked him when he first went to consult you. At the time he had no idea who you were, or rather what you would become to him, and he had nothing to lose, really. Assuming this tattoo would be his last and he’d never have to worry about you again, he gave you the honest truth.

“I wanted to cover this up,” he pulled up the sleeve of his shirt to reveal his forearm and the large scar that adorned it. He expected you to wince at how ugly it was or at least show some sort of pity (people usually did, it was why he covered it up), but instead you stared at it like a painting. You didn’t have to say anything to him, for your eyes screamed _beautiful_ as you gazed upon him like a miner finally striking gold. He wanted to shrink under your gaze, to become smaller and smaller. But you were so passionate he couldn’t look away.

“I’ve never done a tattoo over a scar,” you admitted (which wasn’t particularly surprising considering you were his age). “But I’d like to give it a shot. If you don’t mind me asking, how did this happen?” You didn’t miss the way Kuroo flinched away from you when you asked, but were polite enough not to bother him over it.

“Well, I got into a knife fight…” he started teasingly, deflecting the question. If he came up with enough funny stories, usually whoever asked would stop bothering him.

“Hilarious,” you cut him off with a straight face. “Give me the real story or don’t bother,” you asked, cleaning your supplies. There was certainly no fooling you. Kuroo swallowed, chest tight at the memory. Well, it wasn’t like he had anything to lose, except pride.

“There was an incident with a clothing iron,” he explained slowly, thinking back to it. “I got into an argument with my ex…” He tripped over his words. The scars was old news but his relationship status was still fresh in his mind. “…while I was doing laundry and lost track of the iron.” His voice trailed off as he gulped. You’d probably laugh at him or pity him or say something that made him want to get up and leave immediately, all ideas of a tattoo forgotten.

Instead, you kept rummaging through your supplies without faltering. “Must’ve hurt like a bitch,” you hummed, unfazed.

“So what tattoo were you thinking of?” you inquired, sitting in front of him with a blank paper and pencil and an excited smile that Kuroo would never forget. “Let’s talk.”

It was the start of an unlikely friendship. His first tattoo (a beautiful chain of red flowers, each representing one of his teammates from his old volleyball team) was _gorgeous,_ so much so that he found himself coming back for more. To his surprise, you always asked him _why_ he wanted a tattoo (although he supposed you already had to know the meaning in order to draw it so there wasn’t much use in asking) and he never hesitated to answer.

Except for one time, when he asked for a small semi-colon on the area behind his ear. He’d asked you for it out of the blue, knowing it was simple enough for you to sit him down and do it quickly. But his pale face and blown out eyes had you skipping the usual questions and consultations, choosing instead of make him wait until after you got off work to drag him back to your apartment where you could listen to him in the peace and quiet of a home.

He supposed that was when you two become more than just an artist and customer. You were eerily perceptive and so you’d already known plenty about Kuroo; you’d etched his whole identity into his body after all, but this was the first time the two of you allowed it to leave the workplace.

At such a brutally slow pace he hadn’t even realized it, you had seeped into all the cracks in his perfect exterior. In all his ramblings to you about this tattoo and that tattoo and what they all meant, you’d somehow become his crutch to hold him up while he fell apart.

It was his fault, after all, that he’d trust you with so much information. Every tattoo had a story, and he knew most of them weren’t pretty. Yet you always took them in stride, never making him feel like any less of a person.

He wanted (read: wished) that were reason enough to love you, but he knew that wasn’t true. He was a sob story in the making and you were _electric._ Your eyes made him feel like he was on fire, as if the world he’d been living in was a shitty blockbuster movie and you were about to make it an award-winning novel. You were addicting and loving and you made Kuroo hopeful. But he’d long given up on waiting for a happy ending. Even if Bokuto was right, you deserved better than him.

Still, that didn’t mean he couldn’t indulge in your friendship (or your rice cakes). A casual friendship was safe; he could laugh and joke and pretend you didn’t know why he still covered his arm with the scar even after covering it up or why he’d never quite see volleyball the same way again. As friends and away from your workplace, none of that mattered.

And so, he hadn’t hesitated in welcoming you into his home that same night even as Bokuto’s words bounced around in his head (he couldn’t skip out on movie night, after all. It was tradition!).

“What’d you bring tonight?” he asked teasingly. It was routine: after you’d found out Kuroo had yet so see a single one of your shitty rom coms, you took responsibility to make sure he saw _every single one._ You’d supply the movie; he’d supply the snacks. It was normal for you at this point.

“Ten Things I Hate About You,” you grinned, smile so infectious he felt the corners of his lips tugging upwards.

“It better be than the last one,” Kuroo quipped (the last one was pretty in pink and Kuroo just _couldn’t_ wrap his head around why Ducky didn’t get the girl), but before you could retort he was off to his kitchen to prepare the popcorn.

Without invitation, you made quick work of setting his living room up for movie night. This, too, was part of your unspoken agreement, especially when he started leaving extra blankets and pillows out for you to work with. When he entered back in with cinnamon-coated popcorn (it was your favorite), you’d already had everything up.

He whistled, settling in beside you. “You’ve outdone yourself,” he observed. As always you grinned up at him, curling up into his side as he held the bowl for you to share.

“You gave me more to work with,” you responded, grabbing the remote to set up the movie.

Kuroo tried his best to relax next to you, but Bokuto’s words were still swarming in his head. He _couldn’t_ like you, it was too dangerous. You were already everywhere, all over his body and in the food, he ate and the shows he watched. If he were to fall for you and if anything were to end _badly,_ he’d be heart broken.

Too soon Kuroo’s mind was brought back to the end of high school, talking with Nohebi’s captain. Deciding to never talk to him again, covering up all traces of him from his body. Getting tattoo after tattoo to forget him and rid his body of all traces of him.

“You should leave.” Kuroo was speaking but he couldn’t hear his own voice.

You turned towards him, looking hurt but unsurprised. “What’s wrong?” you asked, hand squeezing his forearm supportively. He hated the look way your eyes looked at him. He wished you’d look at him with pity like everyone else did. It would’ve been so much easier if you looked at him like he was only a ghost of the past, the same way Kenma and Bokuto did whenever they stopped themselves from mention “taboo topics.” Like volleyball and Daishou and clothing irons.

But you didn’t pity him or baby him. Your eyes weren’t scared at his sudden outburst or worried to approach him. All he saw was understanding. You _knew_. Of-fucking-course you knew. You, who helped him cover up all his scars. You, who let him stay at your apartment whenever his started to feel too big for one person. You, who suggested he got a tattoo to remind him to breathe (4-7-8, written in your handwriting) and he _took_ it.

Kuroo wanted to be proud of his tattoos, that covered his body as his own personal shield. He wanted to admire your handiwork and relish in the way he could forget about who he had been before them. But he knew they were simply reminders of unseen scars. He swore he was healing while he bled out, haunted by memories of the past.

“Whatever’s wrong, you can tell me,” you told him, voice like a promise. He knew it was true, that he could tell you and you’d coddle him while he cried and make him feel like the only person in the entire world. He knew you were magic; you could tell by the way his muscles tensed that something was wrong. Your electric eyes saw _him._

But all he could think about was a steaming hot iron and the apologies that followed. He pictured an empty apology after empty promise and letting it excuse pain and tears too many times. He could barely recall how difficult it was to unwind himself from a web of being loved only when it was convenient, how it took him _months to_ realize something was wrong.

Kuroo knew being with you would make _him_ feel loved, but he was so damn scared he couldn’t love you back. He couldn’t bare the thought of using you in the same way he had been used.

“You should leave,” he repeated, pulling his arm away from your touch. He wished he could linger in it, but he was certain too much and he’d be addicted.

He wanted (read: hoped) you would argue with him just a bit. Tell him you wouldn’t leave him alone like this and pull him towards you like they always did in your shitty rom coms. But they were actors who knew what came next, and you were _real._ So real that he could reach out and hold you close and so selfless that you knew when it was time to leave.

You didn’t say anything to him as you backed away, grabbing your things. Kuroo was frozen in place, worried if he moved that he would forget the warmth of your hand on his arm. He knew he fucked up, but he could handle that. He made mistakes all the time. It was easier this way, he was sure.

Until you were one foot out of the door, looking back at him. “You know,” you whispered, eyes looking somewhere far away from his apartment. “You’re not the only one with baggage.” Your voice trembled. “Even if you were, it’s lighter to carry it together.”

Kuroo wished you had slammed the door shut behind you so he didn’t have to sit up straight, only to see you were gone. Even without you in the apartment, your presence was everywhere. All over his body and in his damned pillow fort and in the cinnamon spread over his popcorn. Even when you were gone, he was still with you.

He rolled his head back, not sure what to do. Numbly, he found his way to his phone to send a quick text to Bokuto.

_You were right._

Right about now he’d usually think about getting a new tattoo, maybe text you to spitball an idea. He sighed as he leaned back into the blankets you had so gleefully set up for them to share. “I guess that’s not an option anymore.”

None of it made sense to Kuroo. His last breakup was liberating, like a breath fresh of air, and here was on a Saturday night about to watch a rom-com to forget about you. He was certain it was some sort of cruel irony that it was only now he was starting to realize how hurt and in love he’d been.

He wondered (read: prayed) if he’d find salvation in you yet again.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm bad at replying but comments are highly appreciated <3


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